


Orpheus

by RocksCanFly



Category: DCU, DCU (Animated), Young Justice, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Gen, Hallucinations, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 00:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2488139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocksCanFly/pseuds/RocksCanFly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WARNING: OBJECTS IN THE MIRROR MAY BE CLOSER TO THE TRUTH THAN THEY APPEAR</p><p>or</p><p>Kaldur's betrayal prompts a relapse, and Roy tries to get some closure with the things living in his head. The mirror's cracked but its still a better lens than poppy-soaked sclera, ghost and hallucinations abound, and really it all goes about as well as you'd expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orpheus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shadesninde](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Shadesninde).



> Content warning for heroin use and addiction.
> 
> AKA warning for time-skip era Roy Harper.
> 
> Based off a prompt from Shade's Ninde: "Roy/Kaldur (friendship or slash) prompt. In the middle of a heroin high (or a withdrawal low) Roy “hallucinates” that Manta!Kaldur appears. What they do - talk, fight, cry, make out, all of the above - is totally up to the writer."
> 
> Your move, you enabling (and, thankfully, beta-ing) monster. :D

* * *

* * *

 

You've never wanted to blame Kaldur for things before. The sensation is an unpleasant one, a sort of sick sense of your own betrayal that curls up like a copperhead in the pit of your stomach.

But things change _(oh, how they **change** )_.

You want to blame him _now_.

You want to blame him for the needle you're sanitizing with a lighter, for the hose tied tight on your arm. You want to blame him for everything; when Nightwing told you, you didn't believe, and then.

You _saw_ him, at a rendezvous in Shanghai you were stalking. You were looking for your usual- the transfer was a LexCorp one, and you still think, even after all these years of fruitless searching, it’s the best bet you have of finding Speedy.

You've never regretted anything more in your life.

Almost anything, you think nebulously, while you heat the crystals in the spoon, counting down the time till they melt under your breath. You're crouched in your apartment. The lights are off and the cracked mirror is covered. He told you his people's legends about ghosts so long ago, and they still stick around in your head.

So _much_ of him sticks around in your head (you should have been there. He wouldn't have cracked if you had been there [you're so selfish, thinking you could have stopped this. If anything you would have made it worse. That's all you ever do] to help him, if you'd just _picked up_ the _fucking_ com).

When he walked into the circle of light below the rafter you were crouched on, removed his helmet--it's not the mask that gets to you. It's not the new costume at all. The old one was getting too small anyways. He'd outgrown it years ago, and sometimes it amazes you that you're the one who ever seemed to notice, considering you haven't been noticing much of _anything_ lately.

But the nerve of him, still using the water bearers, still walking tall and proud and.

And like he was still the same person, under the bull-crap and betrayal, when there was no way, _no way_ that there was anything left of the man who's been knocking down your doors for--

Five years now.

Huh.

Your arm starts to go numb from the tubing, and you're snapped out of your reverie by the burning smell of the dirty habit that's been knocking at your door for such shorter a time than he did (it's a shame you've always been so much better at opening doors for your demons then your angels).

Hey, who knows, you think as the needle slides in, as something in you just-- _melts_ \--Maybe you'll finally be able to open the door for him, too, now that he's traded the halo in for horns.

You snort at yourself. Horns, Devil Ray, it's all so fucking poetic and that is so _typical_ of him, you think vaguely as you discard the needle.

Golden warmth is spreading through you, honey-thick and wonderful. Already the grime of the floor, the stale air, the filth on you and around you--it doesn't _press in_ on you the way it did.

You un-slump, pull the hose off. As you walk to the window, throw it open, you start to hope a little.

Okay, Kaldur's fucked up. But you are, too, and he's.

He's gotten you through some tough times. And now that he's not here, you can. You can use this thing, this thing that's filling you up right now with bright possibility, the relaxed certainty that you can fix this. That maybe you can be good enough to bring him home.

The happy, buzzing feeling settles in behind your eyes as you look out at the skyline. Just a few years ago you and him--the two of you _ruled_ that skyline. It wasn't that long ago. There's a way to get back to that, you think, leaning on your arms. The cold wind blowing in doesn't touch you, can't touch you. Everything's warm and wonderful, _why_ did you _ever_ quit this again?

Because you. Normally you're broken and useless and this sad, needy shadow of someone else. Normally it’s Kaldur who pulls you up out of the dark, who lets you lean on him. But _this_ you--the you with help, the super-you that comes out on the drug.

This you can help _him_ , for once.

 

_'Roy.'_

You can almost hear him even, the possibility is so tangible. So _real_.

Like this it would be so easy. A mere matter of tracking him down, getting him away from those bastards. Get him alone, talk some sense into him.

 

_**'Roy.'** _

_So easy_ , you think over and over again. _I can bring him back, so easily like this._

Too fast, though, the twinkling of the city lights lose their glimmer, the warm buzz fades and leaves you colder than ever.

You'd thought that you'd waited long enough that your tolerance would have faded.

Apparently not.

Huffing a cloud of steam into the winter air, you turn, regard the remains of your stash.

 _A little more_ , half of you says. _That's all it'll take--just a little more and you'll be you again, the_ real _you. You can go after him, get him back if you just take a_ little _more._

'A little more and this time no one's going to be there to save you from drowning in your own puke when you pass out, you delusional fuck' the other half of you, that half of you practically embodies one of those many little-storm-cloud emo kids from your junior high (hah) days says. The warm usually keeps him out, but it's been taking more and more to keep the warm around these days.

Despite the fading buzz behind your eyes and your better judgment, you listen to him and hunker down on the couch.

As you drag your eyes away from the stash sitting on your coffee table they catch on the mirror in the corner of your vision. The filthy sheet you covered it with has slipped off a bit and for a moment you swear you catch a hint of sea-green glinting off of it.

Something stiffens in your spine, leaving you bolt-upright and staring at that corner of mirror. You have to steady yourself on your knees when you heave yourself to your feet.

Time slows down as you approach the mirror, something in the back of your mind, something smothered underneath the buzzing, says something about ghosts.

The sheet seems to fling itself off at your touch, like it was waiting for it and in the mirror you see--

\--Yourself.

You see the bags beneath your eyes and your unshaven jaw and your lank hair and the way your uniform hangs off of you. You see the way your hand shakes and you tighten it against the tremors.

You lean your head against the mirror, feel the glass smearing with the oil from your skin. You breath, unsteady shuddering things, and wish very, very hard for ghosts.

A few shaky breaths and a glance back at the man in the mirror later and for _once_ the universe has given you something you asked for.

 _He's **there.**_  Behind your shoulder, hips canted to the side, looking around at your apartment. It hasn't been cleaned since the last time he was here, and you can see the displeasured twist in his mouth, the wonderful little furrow if his brows and--

And the green of his eyes, and the way his hair covers his whole head in that soft golden carpet, the way he fills out the turtleneck you haven't seen him in for.

For a year now. Since the last time you met him out of uniform.

(He was always in uniform, at the end, like he never left the Cave anymore, never put the burden down for even a moment. Like no one was there to _make_ him.)

“Hey,” you say roughly, and it works its way out of your throat like a croak. Your legs are jelly and your bowels are water and oh _god_ , he's. Right there.

He turns to face you, arms crossed over his chest and that brings this stupid smile to the corner of your mouth that shakes in the mirror.

'''S been a while,” you say weakly.

'So it has,' he says and nothing more.

“So, uh. What've you been up to lately?” you say. 'What the fuck did you think you were doing in Shanghai?' you don't say.

He doesn't respond, just. Stares.

“Hey,” you say. “I'm going to turn around now, okay? I want to get a good look at you.”

That prompts a response. His fists go to his sides. He relaxes but not really. The stance he settles into--its the calm, reasonable one he uses on people when he needs them to do things. Or, well, not do them. As the case may (usually) be.

'I would not recommend that course of action,” he says slowly. 'Appearances can be... deceiving.'

“And that goes double for mirrors, right?” you laugh, and brace your hands to push off the mirror, ready to turn. You _really_ need to look at him, need to know he's really there. “I won't know that you're real if I can't look at you.”

'You would do well to remember Orpheus,' he says, and that is. _Such_ a weird thing to say, even for him.

“You're not _dead_ ,” you say, and it comes out. Wow, a lot more, uh. Forceful than you meant it.

'The concept remains.'

Something red hot starts crawling its way up your throat. You're reminded, suddenly, that you _hate_ it when he tries to pretend to be the reasonable one.

“I just want to fucking _see_ you, is that so bad?” you growl. “Or are you afraid of what I'll see, is that it?”

He holds your eyes with his for an impossible stretch of time.

“Say something,” you whisper lowly, clenching your fist against the mirror. The pleasant buzz has turned to angry, stinging bees behind your forehead. Your eyes prickle, and you’re surprised to see your vision blurring in the corners.

Time stretches on, in front of you and behind you.

(You see the unremembered details in his face, the small scar in the corner of his eye that you somehow managed to forget about. You made the mistake, so many times, of not taking the time to see him. And now, now you might _never_ be able to again, not without that _fucking_ mask, and he won't even let you turn around so you can see him face-to-face _one more time_ )

“SAY SOMETHING,” you yell at those eyes, smashing your fist into the glass. It fractures, the cracks spiderweb out until he's fractured, too, splintered and broken and _you_ , you can't see him anymore and you spin on your heel with your heart in your throat because-- _ **no** _ , you didn't get to say _goodbye--_

His shoulders look even wider, from this angle, you think. It's a stupid, useless thought you throw up as a barrier because the person standing in front of you has on dark, sleek armor instead of a blue turtleneck that's been worn so often its feather soft to the touch.

 _No_ , you don't bother trying to say because your throat closed up so tight that you can feel your lungs shrivel.

"This isn't exactly what I meant when I said you should leave the Team," you say instead, trying for humor. He glares down at you--for a mad second you think he's gotten taller, like _five inches_ in, _what_ a year?--but no. You're just. Slumped against the mirror, you can hear the cracks spreading behind you, feel the beginning of shards digging into your back.

"It's just... This seems a little sudden, you know?” you continue weakly. “Everyone's been on edge about it being me who goes off the deep-end, and the last time I saw you--"

'--was more than half a year ago,' he snorts. He plants one hand on his hips, and the way he cants them, that familiar posture, it looks so ridiculous in that costume that you feel a sick giggle bubble up in your throat. It comes out as a choked snort, and the _look_ he gives you.

Like you're dirt under his feet, something unpleasant he must of stepped on his way towards Crazy Town.

'I am uninterested in defending myself to someone who lost all right to judge me years ago,' he drawls, and the look on his face is arrogant, and that's--that's just so _wrong_ because Kaldur. Kaldur isn't-- _wasn't --_ like that.

It sets something alight, down in your feet. But the heat's still distant, and he's still looking at you like you're, like you're _trash ._ You swallow back cold bile. "Not too sure that taking drugs and trading them for C4 is quite the same thing, fishsticks."

There's another one of those silences that stretches on for forever. Kaldur's fingers twitch where they're clenching his helmet. 'Do not presume to speak so familiarly with me.'

Heat creeps up the back of your neck to cover your ears. “Sorry,” you say lowly, hunching into yourself. The mirror cracks a little more behind you. You should be angry, but you can't.

You can't summon up the energy, it's all been sapped out of you, suddenly. Your eyes stray to your stash on the table and you hate yourself a little more.

“Sorry,” you repeat, ripping your eyes from it. The self-hatred gives you a little boost, something to start the anger up again. Because you should. Be angry, that is. “I wasn't aware that putting on some stupid costume and running to daddy meant you’re too good to interact with the hero side these days.”

'I don't see any heroes here,' he snarls, face twisting awfully. 'Just an addict.'

Your head jerks up at that, you meet his eyes. They're cold and empty, like chips of ice. “Better an addict than a traitor,” you hiss, and the heat that crawled its way up to your ears make its way to your cheeks and settles in behind your eyes.

His lip curls up, and with a shake of his head he's turning from you towards the door.

'I am just accepting that this is what I was always supposed to be,' he says as he walks away from you. His strides are long and purposeful, but the distance to the door seems to recede before him.

'You'd do well to do the same, Harper,' his voice rings out. It's loud and echoing, a spike of pain in your ears.

'Give up--you're _never_ going to find Speedy. You're _never_ going to be the hero you used to be. You're _never_ going to win. May as well finish off that stash you have on the table. You already want to. Finish it, then. When you're dead maybe you can finally stop ruining everyone's lives.'

Either the room's stretching or he's not really moving because he's been walking away from you this whole time and he's still in arms reach. So its an easy thing, when the hatred and the anger gathers up in your chest in a tight ball. When he reaches the door you launch yourself toward him. You grab for his shoulder as he puts that helmet on, as you watch that golden hair and brown skin disappear behind cold silver and yell- “FUCK YOU”- and you're not sure, not really, _who_ its directed at because _everything_ he said is _true_ and--

And you slam against the door, which is still closed and still locked.

He's _gone_ , you ruined it, you _fucked up_ because everything he said was horrible and true and.

And even if you _hate_ him right now, for ruining your high (your life, because he was the last thing about yourself that you could count on to be _good_ ) you want him _back_.

And a couple hours of being curled up on the floor later, you get up. You curse the way your legs shake, the pounding in your head because you've gone and done it again, relapsed like a worthless piece of _shit._

And you grab your stash, on the way to the window, and your spoon and your hose and you toss the hose and spoon out the window along with last night's dinner. And when you stumble your way to the bathroom you empty what's left of that little bag of warmth into the toilet and as it flushes you rinse your mouth out with water and look yourself in the mirror one more time.

The bags are still there, beneath your eyes. Your hair is still long and greasy and the your clothes still hang off you. But.

You don't feel that warmth anymore, that pleasant haziness.

All you feel is cold.

 _And that's fine_ , you think, as you avoid looking over your shoulder for one more glimpse because you know that he's gone, for real this time.

 _That's_ fine, because when you're warm you can't believe that you could possibly be that man in the mirror even when that reflection is the only thing about you that's not lying to itself.

So maybe cold is what you need to be right now.


End file.
